“How many times was that?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied, “but you will astonish me if you have anything left.”
“But you do?”
“I don’t have to get an erection,” she explained. “And I’m in pretty good shape, so I expect I could go all morning, if you have any interest.”
“Interest, yes; strength, no.”
“Interest is good,” she said, patting his belly.
Joan’s voice came from the intercom. “Assistant District Attorney Monahan is on line one,” she said, articulating the title carefully. Good Joan.
Stone held a finger to his lips for Eliza to see, and she nodded. He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Stone,” Dierdre said, “I hardly know what to say to you. I would have thought, just thought, that you would have been able to keep Herbert Fisher out of trouble, after his close call at the hotel.”
“Herbie is on a bus to Florida,” Stone replied, careful not to use her name. “He called me from the road early this morning.”
“Maybe from the road,” Dierdre said, “but not the road to Florida. Try the road to Little Italy.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You should be hearing from Herbie again soon,” she said, “when it finally dawns on him that he needs a lawyer.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Stone said. “What was Herbie doing in Little Italy?”
“Killing Carmine Dattila.”
“What?” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“At ten minutes past ten this morning, Herbie walked into the La Boheme coffeehouse and shot Dattila the Hun twice in the head, and actually got out of the place alive, because half an hour before, the police had gone in there and arrested everybody who had a gun. We still had a whole bunch of people hanging around the block in plain clothes, and they managed to disarm and handcuff Herbie before he could hurt himself.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the lockup downstairs. Frankly, we’re a little undecided as to what to do with him: charge him with first-degree murder or give him a medal for his service to the community. Could you get your ass down here as quickly as possible, please?”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Stone said. He hung up.
“I couldn’t hear that one,” Eliza said. “I guess nobody was shouting.”
“It’s just as well; you wouldn’t have believed it. I certainly don’t.”
An hour and ten minutes later Stone presented himself at the district attorney’s office and was ushered into a conference room where Dierdre Monahan and the chief deputy D.A. were already seated. Simultaneously, Herbie was brought in through another door, wearing shackles, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist.
“Hey, Stone,” he said. “I…”
“Shut up, Herbie, an
d don’t say another word, or I’ll borrow a gun and shoot you.”
“I’ll loan you a gun,” Dierdre said.
Stone sat down opposite her and her boss, while Herbie was pressed into a chair at the end of the table. A uniformed policeman stood behind him, glowering.
Dierdre shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “That’s your client’s signature at the bottom of a waiver of his right to an attorney,” she said. She held up a cassette. “And this is the videotape of his full confession to the murder of Carmine Dattila.”
“Well, I don’t know why I had to come all the way downtown,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just electrocute him and get it over with?”